Jack
by Bimefl
Summary: With a name like Jackson Ripner who could grow up normal? This is my idea of what Jackson's childhood was like and why he's in the business he is now. One Shot!


**AN: **Ok, here it is after only about two long days and nights of writing and editing. Well, not really, but you get the point. I said I was going to do a Red Eye fic and here's the first. I'm working on another one but I'm not sure I'll post it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fiic. When I saw the movie I was like "Ok, this guy has to have past." So here's my version of Jackson Ripner's messed up childhood. Read on!

**Disclaimer: **Yes, I have to. I don't own Red Eye or any of the characters or quotes or ideas (ETC...) from Red Eye. Moving on, I do own the plot and any characters not mentioned in the movie.

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A little boy sat playing in a perfectly manicured lawn. He had dark brown hair that waved in the breeze and got into his eyes, something he found very annoying. His bright blue eyes watched the world around him as he went about his life. He was so young and yet so old.

"Jack," his mother called from the back screen door. "Jack dinner's ready!" She shut the door and went back to setting the table, knowing he wouldn't some right away. His father sat reading the newspaper at the table. He caught her around the waist and brought her onto his lap for a kiss. She smiled.

The boy, Jack, kept on playing, not noticing his mother coming out to get him. "Jack, come on, you can play after dinner." Silently he rose and walked to the back door. His mother, though, stood and stared at what he had been doing in the back yard. There, piled up and pieced, lay ten spiders.

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"Jack!" rang out a singsong voice. "Jack the Ripper!" Oh if only the girl had stopped after the first part then maybe Jackson Ripner wouldn't have gotten so mad. But no, she kept on going, mercilessly teasing him. She wasn't more than eight, the same age as he was now. Why did she have to sit right behind him in class? Why couldn't he have the last seat in the row?

"Jack the Ripper?" asked a friend of the first, just as seemingly sweet and innocent. "Who's that?" Her friend rolled her eyes at the second girl. All the while Jackson fixed his eyes out the window to his right, hoping that maybe after school he could find a mouse. Yes, a mouse would do this time.

"I'll tell you," chimed in a boy's voice. He tried to sound tough with his low-pitched voice but everyone knew it was because he looked so little. "Jack the Ripper was a murderer. He killed prostitutes in London and mutilated the bodies." There was a chorus of "Ewwws" from the little girls and the boys all laughed loudly. This caught the attention of the teacher who finally started listening.

"What's a prostitute?" asked the same innocent and naïve girl who had not heard of Jack the Ripper. At this the teacher stood.

"I think that will be quite enough talking from all of you in the corner," she sternly told them. "The next one who talks will have to stay in five minutes at recess." That shut them all up, but the girls still giggled softly and the boys still pointed openly.

Jackson told himself that eventually it would get better. That was what his parents told him. His stupid parents who had cursed him with this name. He hated them for it. Couldn't they have just named him James, or even Eric? His mother always said to just ignore them; they'll get bored eventually. But eventually wasn't soon enough for Jackson. Everyday wore him down just a little more and soon enough he was the most cynical kid in the third grade.

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He was alone in the woods, of that Jackson was sure. Well, unless you counted the small ball of fur he held in his hands. Jackson had found this stray cat on the way home from school. He had started walking along the railroad tracks in fifth grade to avoid all of the other kids and their obnoxious laughter.

The small cat purred and pushed itself against Jackson's restraining hands. He held it gently, only keeping it from escaping, as he made his way towards the escape he had built himself. It wasn't much, just a couple of boards forming a lean-to, but to this 13-year-old it was a haven. No one else knew about this place he had tucked deep into the woods behind his subdivision, just another symbol of suburbia.

Finally reaching the shack Jackson pushed open the door and switched on the camp light he had borrowed from a "friend" without permission and with no intention of ever giving it back. Closing the door he set the kitten down to wander around the dirt floor of the lean-to. He watched it stumble around, obviously malnourished, and had a sudden thought.

In his mind he saw a cat hanging high up in a tree. Blinking he shook his head but grinned. It wouldn't be the first time Jackson had done something like that. Perhaps he was a sadist. Often he had been called that but never had he personalized the label. Now he wondered.

Again he picked up the cat, thinking of what he could do. Coming up with the perfect plan he took out the pocketknife he kept with him always. With the cat in one hand and the knife in the other, Jackson set about his work. It was quick, and to its credit the cat barely made a sound. Once finished Jackson carried the cat back to where he had found it by the railroad tracks.

It looked up at him, pleading and angry. Jackson's hands bore the marks of the cat's displeasure. From its throat dripped a little blood around a newly formed hole strait into its trachea. Jackson grinned. _No more meowing for you,_ he thought and walked away down the tracks.

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Four years later Jackson sat in the corner of the cafeteria, alone as always. Once in awhile someone new to the school would come and talk to him but soon enough they were warned away by the status quo. It wasn't that he had no talents, it's just that all of his talents seemed to be illegal and that singled him out. People didn't associate with lepers, especially ones rumored to have skeletons buried out in the woods.

Jackson Ripner had no skeletons buried in the woods, well no human ones anyway. This isn't to say he had never thought about murder. Often he found himself day dreaming about slashing the throat of those particularly annoying fellow students. Violence amused him. The other day one of his peers had tried to beat Jackson up only to find he woke up in the ER with a concussion. Fortunately this had been outside of school and the guy was too chicken to tell the truth.

"I was playing football with some friends," he had told his parents. Lucky for him they were stupid enough to believe that. Despite that, it was common knowledge among the student body the Jack the Ripper had taken out his first tangible victim.

"Hey Ripper!" called out a voice from a few tables over. Jackson ignored it and continued reading the book he had bought about forged documents. Often he read books like that. His favorites included the ones about professional killers. They seemed to have it all together, the perfect assassins for any situation.

The person whom the voice belonged to grew angry with Jackson and stood up, making his way over to Jackson and his otherwise empty table. "I said 'hey.' It's rude to ignore someone," the football player said, shoving Jackson from behind.

Jackson calmly put down his book, stood up, and turned around. Looking the guy in the eye he asked, "Is there something you wanted?"

"Yeah," laughed the guy. "I wanted to beat you up." All his cronies around the lunchroom let out whistles at laughs at this.

Jackson stayed calm but replied, "Then take a shot." He stood with his arms spread and waited. _Always let them hit first,_ he thought. _In school, anyway. Any other situation means go first or die first._ That was one he'd picked up from those books he loved. The other guy didn't know what to do so he looked around. "Well are you going to hit me or not?" Jackson's voice was very matter-of-fact as he taunted this jock.

Without warning the guy drew back his fist to punch Jackson. Grinning Jackson grabbed his fist and twisted hard to the outside. The jock grimaced and took a poorly aimed punch with his other arm. Catching the guy's upper arm Jackson twined his arm with the other guys, bringing them closer together, while squeezing the nerve that runs between the biceps.

"Nice try," Jackson said, releasing the jock. "Better luck next time." Without even looking around he sat back down and picked up his book, oblivious to the room full of teenagers staring at him open-mouthed. _Maybe now they won't bother me anymore,_ he thought bitterly.

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A few weeks later Jackson was caught "fighting in school" and suspended. Really five members of the wrestling team had cornered him but no one would believe it was self-defense. His parents, under the recommendation of the school counselor, put him in therapy. Unlike most kids in that situation Jackson enjoyed his therapy, though he hated his parents all the more for sending him there. It was fun to learn about the human psyche and even more fun to mess with his therapist's mind.

"Hello, Jack," the overly cheery man greeted him. He wore khaki pants and a button up shirt under a sweater vest. His hair was parted in the perfect comb-over to cover his bald spot and his mustache was trim and neat.

"Jackson," he muttered under his breath. In contrast to his therapist Jackson wore jeans and a plain t-shirt. His hair was slightly unruly and his face was almost clean-shaven.

Ignorant to Jackson's correction the man went on. "So how are you feeling this week?" His pen was poised over a yellow legal pad and his eyes were turned attentively towards his patient.

Jackson looked up, grinning. "I've been feeling great, really. I didn't even kill anyone since the last time we've spoken." His tone was mimicked perfectly that of someone who would cooperate.

The man's face drooped a moment but soon returned to its normal perkiness. "You must understand that I'm only trying to help you and if you're not honest with me I can't do that." He waited for Jack to apologize but he merely looked at the man sadly.

"I wish you were happy with the progress I've made since I started seeing you," he said in a downtrodden tone. "I've been trying so hard to change, and to be the good citizen every suburban, middle-class teenager should be."

The therapist set down his pen and notepad on the small table next to his chair. His face assumed a very serious air, as did his tone when he spoke. "I've tried being nice and now it's time for me to be direct. If you don't start cooperating and participating here I will recommend to your parent that you be sent to a residential treatment facility. Do you understand?"

Jackson leaned forward putting his elbows on his knees. "I do not have a problem," he told the man in a voice that could have been used for a horror flick. "You are the one with the problem here because you can't seem to do your job correctly." He leaned back and continued mocking the poor man whose shocked face said everything he couldn't. "I beat up those kids because they hit me first. Do you really think I should have stood by and laughed along as five of my peers tried to make me handicapped? If so than I suggest you find yourself a good therapist and leave the rest of humanity alone." Jackson stood, leaving the man speechless in his office. He picked up the phone and dialed the Ripner's home number.

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Jackson returned home that night to find his parents, his loving, and misguided parents, sitting at the kitchen table, obviously waiting for him. He stood behind the chair opposite his father and leaned against it.

"What's up?" he asked them in a casual voice. He used the confused look to complete the act.

"Sit down," his father said in the "we need to have a talk" voice. Jackson sat and looked towards his mother, the one more likely to give sympathy, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. "You walked out of the therapists office today," his father stated.

"Yes," he admitted, "I did. He has no idea what he is talking about and clearly cheated on his final exams." Silently his parents looked towards each other for support and Jackson knew what was coming. Taking a deep breath he stood up again.

"Sit down, Jack," his father said in a sad tone. He always used the short version of Jackson when he was trying to appeal to his younger, innocent side. Unfortunately all it did was piss Jackson off more. "Nothing is set in stone yet but we just want to get an idea of what you think."

"No," Jackson said. "If you send me to a residential treatment place I swear you will never see me again." His face was dark and by his tone his parents knew he was serious. "I've put up with this therapist because it was interesting but it will not be that way in residential." Never before had he felt the lack of love for his parents stronger. At this moment they were simply two people keeping him from what he wanted to do, two people who, when it came down to it, were responsible for where he was now. They had cursed him with this stupid name, they had pled ignorance to the constant bullying he face, and now they were trying to get him locked away in some therapy nightmare.

"Jack, we just want to do what's best for you," his mother tried.

Jackson shook his head and gestured accusingly, pointing his finger from one parent to the other. "No, no, NO!" His mother winced at his shouting but his father stood and met his eyes.

"Listen to me now, and listen good. Don't you ever, EVER, shout at us, do you understand?" His father's red neck roots were showing through in his frustration. "We are you parents, whether you like it or not."

"Well I don't like it," Jackson spat, walking towards the stair that led to his room. "In fact, I hate you." There was a complete lack of emotion in the words, as though it was less a feeling and more a fact. "I always have." He ran up the stairs and pulled a bag from his closet. Inside he found remnants from when his dad had tried to get him into hunting. Reaching in he pulled out a 12-inch blade and waited. It wasn't long before he heard the telltale steps coming from the hallway.

_Now they will finally pay for all my torment,_ Jackson thought as he stood in the darkness away from the door. _All of this is their fault. I could have turned out just like them, perfectly _normal,_ living the suburban dream, but no. That's not my life. That's not what I was mean to do. _

"Jack," called out his mother's sweet voice. "Jack can I come in?" He knew she stood just outside the doorway. There had only been one set of footsteps and if he knew his father he was standing out back smoking the rare cigarette.

When Jack didn't answer she opened the door and, upon seeing the darkness, searched for the switch. Jackson took the chance and grabbed her wrist drawing her into the room. She gasped startled, but didn't scream. Fumbling for the light she called again, this time softly, "Jack, Jack it's me." She found the switch and threw it into the on position. What she saw brought tears to her eyes and her hands to her mouth.

"I know it's you, Mom," Jackson told her in a calm voice. The expression he wore was what had so shocked his mother. It was happy and yet so dangerous she felt scared. With his left hand he brushed away her tears, his right hand still safe behind his back and out of view. Once her tears were dry he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Jack?" his mother asked in a small voice. "What's wrong with you?" Jackson slipped his left hand over her mouth and pushed her head back. It made a cracking sound as it connected with the doorframe and she passed out cold. He caught her before he fell, careful not to cut her with the large knife he held. Spilling blood here would just be stupid.

"I'm fine, Mom," his voice turned from cheery to dark. "It's you I'm worried about." Picking her up he carried her as quietly as he could down to the backseat of his parents car. Before he went out he made sure to shut off the lights so no one would see his actions. After laying her down there he closed the door and made his way around to the back to where his father was, walking up behind him.

"Dad," he said when he was close enough to be heard. "I'm really sorry."

"For what? I'm the one who should be apologizing for earlier." His father stubbed out the cigarette and turned to look at his son.

"I wasn't sorry for earlier," Jackson said, stepping forward. "I'm sorry for this." Pulling the knife from behind his back he brought the handle down hard on his father's head. It was more of a task to carry him around to the car but he managed, and then set him in the back seat with his mother. He made it look as though she was lying on his lap. Crawling around front he took the keys he had grabbed from his father's jacket and started up the car. It was only nine at night so he didn't think a car leaving would be too unusual or noteworthy. Turning on the radio and setting the cruise when he hit the highway, Jackson prepared for a long drive. He only hoped his parents would stay unconscious until they stopped.

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Two hours later Jackson pulled into a long abandoned boat launch and put the car into park. He had driven this far specifically so they could reach this lake, the only one suitable for what he had in mind. It was a deep lake, almost 50 feet, and it dropped off quickly off shore. He grabbed some rope he had picked up at a gas station along the way and preceded to tie his parents up so they couldn't run. Jackson wasn't worried about them screaming. The nearest house was three miles away and the only place the road he had driven on went to be the boat launch. No one would know.

He sat for about half an hour waiting for them to wake up and tossing his knife in the air, catching it, and tossing it again. Finally he heard his father moan and struggle. Walking over to the open car door he leaned in, silent.

His father, on the other hand, was quite vocal. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Jackson?" His voice was loud and beside him he felt his wife stir. "Untie us this instant or I will have you put into that treatment center!" Slowly Jackson's mother opened her eyes and stared at the image of her son, angry, yet calm, and holding his knife.

"Oh Jack," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "What have you done?"

Jackson decided the he would just say what he needed to say, and then leave this part of his life behind. "I never loved you," he told them with an odd look.

"What the hell are you talking about? Get us out of here!" his father shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Dad, now isn't a good time," Jackson said, holding the knife at his father's throat. His mother gasped but he ignored it and went on. "I suppose I should have loved you, the old parent child bonding thing, but I never did. And you cursed me with this stupid name," he yelled, pulling out of the car and turning in a circle. "Don't you see?" he asked, leaning in. "This is all your fault."

"Please, Jack," his mother cried, "don't do this. We love you."

"Well I don't love you," he said slamming the back door in his father's face. He went around to the driver's side and opened the front door.

"Jack," his father pleaded.

"No," Jackson cut in. "It's not Jack, it's Jackson." He popped the car into neutral and slammed the door, apparently ignorant to his parent's screams. They struggled, of course. It was only natural to do so. They yelled and squirmed, trying to open the doors, but Jackson had ripped off the handles on the inside. There was no way out.

Going around to the back of the car Jackson placed his hands on the trunk and pushed. It was slow at first but he quickly gained momentum. When he could no longer keep up with the speeding car he stopped running and watched as it rolled towards the boat launch. Once the front bumper hit the water it slowed a bit but kept going because of the fast drop off.

When Jackson could no longer hear their screams he sat down on the ground and took a deep breath. He had done it. He had killed someone, not only someone, his parents. And the oddest thing, the one that nagged at some remnant of a conscience that he might have, was that he felt good. There was no remorse, no sorrow, not even a sense of loss. Jackson smiled and stood, heading back up towards the road.

He was going to stay the night in the woods after calling home to leave a message saying he was staying the night at a friend's house, but a kind stranger took him in. The cops would never know he had no friends in town, just as they would never know who really killed his parents. The idiotic cops would never find their bodies. They would believe his lies about meeting this friend at a local café once a week. Could he give them the number? Sure, he just gave them the number of a new friend he'd just made.

This person was not exactly a friend, per say, but more of an admirer. They had been watching Jackson for a while now and said he showed promising potential.

"It seems you have a gift," the man had said in a low, gravely voice. "And I can show you how to make a living off of it." Jackson had been shocked at first to discover someone had followed him out to the abandoned boat launch, but curious as to why they had not called the cops. In the end he had taken the offered ride and learned of an intriguing opportunity.

"Why me?" he asked when the man had finished his proposition to teach Jackson the tricks of the trade. His blue eyes were lit with excitement but his features spoke of apprehension.

Then man glanced over at him and then back at the road he was driving down. "Let's just say a friend noticed you at school and dropped me a note." In reality the friend had been a history teacher who often did PI work for the man. The woman had noticed Jackson's interests and called it in to repay a favor. "I'm too old to keep doing this personally but I'd hate to drop out of the business all together. That's where you come in."

"And if I say yes," Jackson began, "there's no going back. I'll be doing this until I die." His eyes held their gleam and it was spreading to his face.

"Or until you're put in prison," the man responded jokingly, but they both knew he was serious.

"I won't get caught." Jackson sounded cocky but was so sure of himself he would bet on it.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Well, think of it this way," Jackson told him. "Bad things happen to good people but good things happen to bad people." The man laughed and Jackson joined him. He had finally found where he belonged.


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